


Possibility

by JustJasper



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Male Solo, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4364642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/pseuds/JustJasper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iron Bull doesn't fantasise, he goes and does it. Then Dorian Pavus happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possibility

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [LaviniaD](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LaviniaD/pseuds/LaviniaD) for betaing!

“ **The fantasized kiss was stolen time from the dreams.” - Shannon A. Thompson**

The Iron Bull did not touch himself very often. At least, not alone in his room on the cusp of sleep. He rarely had, when there was nearly always someone willing, and he was so upfront about his desires. Before he was bedding a new person every night in Orlais, near-Tal-Vashoth in all but name, the Qun discouraged it. Self-pleasure was a tool to keep the mind and body balanced, just as meditation or diet was, nothing more, and the Tamassrans worked against curious childhood explorations of bodies turning into distracting habit. Later, the Qun taught it as ritual; _Taarsidath-an halsaam_ , to give pleasure to oneself out of respect.

When he did take himself in hand, it was with the same efficiency that had been instilled into him under the Qun. Felt good, of course, he knew what he liked, and the years had given him many fantastic memories to recall, leaving him without the need for fantasy. It seemed odd and pointless to fantasise about people, they either wanted to fuck him, and then he'd know what they were like between the sheets soon enough; or they didn't, and fantasising about them wouldn't change it.

So it came as something of a surprise to realise he was half-hard and thinking about Dorian Pavus' mouth forming a perfect 'o' as he fucked him into the mattress.

It was not a memory, but an increasing possibility, if Dorian took up his open door offer, and if he was into that sort of thing. It struck him as strange even in the eddying stream between waking and sleep that his mind formed something brand new, rather than pulling up something he remembered.

He reached under the sheet and palmed himself.

He couldn't say he hadn't thought about Dorian like that before, but wondering in passing what he'd look like mussed and sexed was different to letting the vision play out as he stroked himself slowly to hardness. Dorian below him, body damp and moustache askew, arms amongst the pillows by his head.

“ _Bull.”_

His name on a breath, rolled around Dorian's mouth like something sweet. His heels pressed into Bull's backside as he thrust into him, slow, steady, hot and tight.

Bull licked his hand, palm to fingertips and then closed it around his cock again, sliding the wet ring of his fist down his length and then dragged it back up, sliding his foreskin up over his crown. He groaned at the sensation, a great rumble in his chest, and squeezed, thinking about Dorian's body clenching around him. He would be noisy, breathless, eager under him, wanting and unashamed.

“ _Fuck me, Iron Bull.”_

That made him groan and press his head back into the pillows; the thought of Dorian without shame. He knew he might be fucked up by Tevinter's bullshit going in, but it seemed worse than he'd imagined when he called the man a friend. He even seemed _less_ of a mess than he ought to be after the crap he'd been through, and Bull knew what he has gleaned from the man's words and from inferences wasn't even half if it.

Bull wanted to make Dorian come harder than he had his entire life. He'd lift Dorian's knees and fold him up, thrust harder, but still slow and deep.

“ _You going to come for me, Dorian?”_

Dorian would definitely like words, if the way he responded to Bull's casual passes was anything to go by. He teased and he pushed, and Dorian huffed and groaned, but still he came back, sometimes with painfully obvious openings for Bull's innuendo and flirting. He was getting worse and worse in his attempts at subtlety, and Bull knew if he ever got Dorian in his bed, words would undo him faster than anything.

Bull kicked off the sheet and spread his legs wide, twisted his fist around his cock as his other tugged on his heavy balls. He thought about them slapping against Dorian's ass, about him moaning and reaching for Bull's neck, pulling him down to press their foreheads together as Bull kept fucking him.

“ _Please, Iron Bull, please!”_

But Dorian was a proud man, he wouldn't beg. Maybe he wouldn't talk at all, too used to silent trysts in quiet corners, but it made Bull ache to think of that lilting, honeyed voice saying his name on one breath and groaning with pleasure the next. Both together, even.

“ _Iron Bull.”_ He imagined his breath catching, bottom lip snatched up by his teeth with the tail end of the sound. That made Bull growl, and he slid his thumb over the leaking head of his prick.

He'd look so _good_ being fucked, Bull knew it. He looked so good covered in mud and trudging up a hill in the Storm Coast, even better twirling his staff over his head before he brought lightning crashing down around them. Especially good shirtless, making his first appearance to the warm morning sun in the desert, a cute mole to match the one on his face next to his clavicle on the same side of his body. Maybe there were more to find over the smooth brown flesh, secrets hidden in the surprising trail of hair below his navel. Bull could follow that down, mouth at him though his leggings, grab his thighs and-

Bull stroked himself faster and steered his mind back to his first fantasy, of Dorian under him, sweaty and glorious as he fucked him. Legs around Bull's waist, holding him, encouraging him, hands at his neck and fingertips digging into the flesh at the base of his skull.

He'd make Dorian come before him, of course he would, make him writhe and yell as he spilled out between them. That beautiful, prissy 'Vint, coming undone under his skill. The image of that made him lose his rhythm, stroking frantically as his body quaked over the threshold, and sensation flooded through him from deep in his belly, toes curling, the hot splatter of his release over his belly and chest.

It wasn't shame that settled on him as he lay in the quiet of his room, idly wiping at himself with a cloth, but something unfamiliar had taken up space in his mind. He didn't fantasise about would-be fucks, and still a prickly Tevinter mage, a man who wore a coat of needles to guard something fragile and secret had formed in his mind's eye with remarkable vigour and clarity.

He hummed to himself, and wondered, as the edges of his thoughts frayed into sleep, if he'd get to compare his imagination and reality.

“ **Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.” - Epicurus**


End file.
